The first time I moved from Lithuania to America, I was 5 years old and couldn’t speak any English. On the first day of kindergarten, I was crying so much that my teacher carried me and let me sit on her lap. Meanwhile, the rest of the kids were seated on the carpet in front of me and watched me cry while she described to them what was going on (in a language I didn’t understand). Our school was composed of three buildings, and the pick-up was at the “blue” building, but my classroom was at the “red” building, so they put a sign on a string around my neck that said, “I don’t speak English and I’m going to the blue building,” and sent me away to follow a crowd of other kids. I’m still traumatized…